Nightly Ritual
by PotterheadWhovian7
Summary: -TRIGGER WARNING- Before John met Sherlock, he was a mess. He couldn't cope with anything. He needed something to happen- anything. Pointing a gun at his head would do.
1. Chapter 1

John drew in a shaky breath as he clicked off the safety from his gun. He had it cocked and ready. He drew in a deep sigh as he pressed the cold piece of metal against his head.

The gun felt almost comforting. It reminded him that he was alive. Thriving and living and breathing- and he could stop all that any second.

But John didn't pull the trigger. He never did. Every night, he held the gun against his temple and waited for something to happen- but nothing ever did.

Actually, that's why he did it. Nothing ever happened to John H. Watson, former army doctor. Ever since he was sent home, his life had been dull, ordinary. He didn't _want_ something to happen, he _needed_ it.

He was a soldier. He loved the thrill of the battle and the split-second choice between life and death.

But since he's been shot, all of that had ended in an instant. He was sent back to London.

Nothing happened to John Watson.

And nothing ever will.


	2. Chapter 2

John didn't only hold a gun to his head.

He held a razor to his wrist.

Both of his arms were covered in scars from that razor. He never let anyone see, not even his therapist or his sister.

There were two reasons why he wore jumpers all of the time. The first- he longed for comfort, to be wrapped in a hug. Life in Afghanistan had made him crave this.

The other reason was his scars.

He was not proud of his scars. He didn't show them off to prove something or get attention like some people would. He carefully hid them- never let the razor get to low on his wrist or close to his collar bone.

He relished in the pain, though. He smiled painfully- some might call it a grimace- every time the knife bit into his skin. He watched the crimson red blood flow down his arms and let it drip to the floor, never letting it touch the carpet, loving the blood but hating the stains.

He would clean up thoroughly- cleaned the cut as though it was an accidental cut from chopping vegetables, and wiped the floor. He would put a bandage over the gash and remove it when his arm didn't sear with pain when he moved it.

Some cuts were deeper than others. Some were long, some were short, some where almost classified as stabs. He always did horizontal lines- he didn't want to bleed to death. If he had to die of his own accord, it would be quickly, a shot from his gun.

He cut because he needed a release from the emotional pain. The searing agony that shot through his arm and echoed through his whole body numbed the pain that came from the many dark voices in his mind, telling him to end it.

He needed an escape, and that was only only exit door he could find.


	3. Chapter 3

John looked at his gun in his desk drawer as he took out his laptop. His face was lined with depression and defeat. He had almost given in last night. His finger had trembled and touched the trigger, almost setting it off. He had almost done it on purpose.

He made up his mind at that moment, staring at the gun. He would do it tonight. He would write a note apologizing to Harry. He just couldn't take it any longer. He needed all of his pain to end.

Then, later that day, Mike Stamford saw him. Bless that man. He just saved a life. He introduced John to Sherlock Holmes, Consulting Detective.

And Sherlock had saved John's life. He had distracted him from the gun, from the pain of facing life everyday, and even of his limp.

The stabbing pain of going through life was over for John. He didn't force his way through anymore- he enjoyed it. Sometimes, he would have flashbacks to his time spent in Afghanistan, but that was to be expected. He didn't need his therapist anymore. He didn't pick up his gun every night and point it at his head. He didn't take out his razor and trace lines across his arms, relishing in the pain. He was a changed man, a happy man. He didn't want to kill himself before- he just wanted the pain to end. And, instead of through the barrel of a gun, he found the release through a man. A friend. A man who saved a life. John's life.

A hero.


End file.
